


Six Days to Christmas

by dracofiend



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Lewis Christmas Challenge 2012, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the six days before Christmas, Lyn and her family visit Lewis, who learns to use his smartphone, eats Italian food, catches a killer, and overhears a conversation that gets him thinking about Hathaway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Days to Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



> Written for the 2012 Christmas Lewis Challenge, for garonne. Many thanks to my Britpicker, witch9spring.

Wednesday, 19 December was a clear and frosty day, and icicles of air darted through the gaps of Hathaway’s slim wool coat as he crossed the carpark. It was a relief to get inside the station, and as he divested himself of his outerwear and started up his computer, Hathaway thought briefly of the bulky grey horror show of a winter coat he used to own. It bore a cornucopia of pockets and toggles and someone had once commented that it made him look like he was carrying twins, but it stood up to Cambridge winters like an igloo. He picked up one of the folders that he’d been going through last night as his email inbox loaded. They were working an murder case—the victim, Patrick Dwight, was a café owner who had been killed with several blows to the front and back of the head. Something about the holidays brought it out in people, it seemed. Hathaway studied the reports and photographs for several minutes, then turned his attention to the new messages striping bold-faced across his screen, most of which concerned unrelated matters. There was an update from the techies on a couple of phone lines they’d been tracing, a message from the desk sergeant to call back a lead, a report on the CCTV sweep he’d requested late yesterday, a much-asterisked reminder that all contents of the department’s refrigerators would be emptied by 2 p.m. today (“All food containers WILL BE THROWN AWAY NO EXCEPTIONS”)—Hathaway set aside the folder and began to click through.

“Morning, James,” said Lewis at the door, three-quarters of an hour later. Hathaway looked up. 

“Morning, sir.”

“Anything new on our unfortunate Mr. Dwight?” Lewis asked, referring to the café owner who had been bludgeoned to death in an alley near his shop.

“One of the last people he spoke to on his mobile was the manager at Betfred Bookmakers out on Cowley Road,” Hathaway replied. “I just spoke to him—apparently he and Dwight were old friends who had had a falling out.”

Lewis sat down and switched on his own computer. “Let me guess—Dwight got in over his head while waiting for his big payout, and when his latest hot tip failed to deliver, his old pal cut him off.”

Hathaway pursed his mouth. “That’s what the manager says, but he was acting cagey about it. I got the feeling there was something more at stake.”

Lewis lifted his brows. “Okay, then let’s find out what else he’s got.”

*** 

Hathaway was driving them back to the station and they were discussing possible theories on the Dwight case when Lewis’ mobile rang. Lewis frowned and groped at his inner suit coat pocket. Hathaway frowned too.

“Is that a new ringtone?” he asked over the muffled sound of drumbeats emanating from Lewis’ chest. Lewis wrestled the phone from his clothing—then the shrill cry of a hunting bird echoed through the car. “It’s Lyn,” Lewis said.

“Sounds like a falcon,” Hathaway observed as Lewis, frowning more deeply now, swiped a thumb across its surface.

“I think it’s meant to be an eagle,” Lewis muttered. His swiping must have lacked precision, as the eagle cried out again. “Sodding…”

Hathaway was about to intervene with helpful suggestions when Lewis managed to answer the call. “Hallo, love.” Hathaway glanced at the silver lettering obscured by Lewis’ wide fingers across the reverse of the phone. _Samsung,_ it read. Hathaway half-suppressed a smirk. So this was Lewis’ first smartphone.

“Nah, just heading back to the office,” Lewis was saying. “It’s okay, James is driving. Oh, yeah, it’s terrific—thanks again. No, the Vodafone man did it—he said all my phone numbers were in here; I must not have seen your name when I picked up though…yeah, okay, I’ll ring you back when I get to the station…what’s that? Oh, right—I see. No, that’s fine. He wouldn’t mind the sofa bed, I suppose? All right—no, of course it’s all right. The more the merrier, eh? Okay…fantastic. Yup. Okay. Yeah, I’ll phone you back. You too, pet. Right. Bye!”

Lewis’ frown returned in full force as he squinted at the screen to end the call. Hathaway stopped at a red light, and took the opportunity to inspect Lewis’ phone up close. “May I?”

Lewis handed it to him, and Hathaway turned it over in his palm. “Oh, very swish, sir.” The phone was sleek and light, and the black casing had that brand-new gleam to it. 

“Yeah,” Lewis replied, a definite note of resignation in his voice. “Me daughter gave it to me as a Christmas present. I’ve only had it twelve hours. I’m giving it twelve more before I put it up on the eBay and go back to a phone I can actually use.”

Hathaway smiled. “Don’t worry—once you get used to it, you’ll wonder how you ever survived without it.” Lewis’ face took on a sceptical cast as Hathaway returned the phone to him and resumed driving. “Are your daughter and her family still coming down on Friday?” Hathaway asked.

“Aye, they are,” Lewis responded. “And she’s bringing a friend—poor bloke’s one of her best friends, and his girlfriend broke it off with him the other day. He was planning on spending Christmas with her family. Lyn didn’t like to see him at loose ends.” Lewis shook his head. “I hope they all realize I’m not exactly living in a palace these days.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not what they’re expecting,” Hathaway said. He indicated to turn into the carpark at the station. 

“We’ll see how fussy the baby is—if he’s up all night, so will we all be.” Lewis continued. “The wee lad’s become quite the climber, Lyn says.” 

Hathaway pulled into a vacant space near the front. “You’ll be able to take plenty of photos of him atop the cabinetry with that new phone of yours.” He switched off the engine in time to catch Lewis rolling his eyes.

“When did it become a crime to use a camera?” he muttered, rubbing a dubious finger over its now-dark surface. 

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, sir,” Hathaway replied. 

*** 

By Friday afternoon, they had interviewed Dwight’s bookmaker, the owner of the betting shop, the owner’s son who had been at the shop the last time Dwight had gone in, Dwight’s own wife and older daughter, and they were in the thick of confirming everyone’s statements.

“Harry Dunton’s too twitchy by half,” Lewis commented about Dwight’s bookmaker and the manager of the betting shop, as they walked through the corridor toward Interview Two. One of the Dwights’ neighbours, a Mrs Armstrong, was waiting there. “There’s definitely something he’s not telling us.”

“True, although he had plenty to say about Patrick Dwight,” Hathaway replied. “All those sneering remarks about Dwight’s domineering wife and her domineering father, and Dwight’s inability to stand up to either of them.”

“You reckon that’s what this is about?” Lewis asked. “The wife and the manager in it together in some kind of sordid love triangle?”

Hathaway tilted his head. “Possibly, although it’s a bit of a hard sell. She’s obsessed with cleansing the family escutcheon of the stains her husband left behind; he’s bent on taking home the plaque for BetFred’s Manager of the Year, South-East Counties. And then there’s the fact that both their alibis have checked out, so far.”

“So far,” Lewis echoed. “But I agree, the gambling angle’s more likely. Still, let’s not rule anything out just yet.” They had reached the interview room; Hathaway opened the door for Lewis, then followed him in.

The interview wasn’t to have lasted long, as over the phone, Mrs Armstrong had reiterated what the others had said. The Dwights had moved to the neighbourhood three or four years ago and seemed like decent folk, though their younger daughter, Jemma, was known to be a bit wild. “She got home very late some nights,” Mrs Armstrong told them darkly as she sat, clutching the handles of her enormous bag. “Very late indeed. Saw her going in through the window once. I think she was with a young man. They should have kept a closer eye on her, if you ask me—you know they’ve sent her off to boarding school in Scotland—oh Mrs Dwight said so, did she? Good. Now Katie, the older girl—she’s always been very sweet. Helped me with my garden one summer—got rid of a lot of that nasty ragwort—”

It continued in much the same vein for more than half an hour, and at the end of it, they went back to their desks and looked back through everything they had so far. 

“So what have we learned?” Lewis asked, stretching his neck to one side. Hathaway knew his boss was tired, and ready for his daughter’s visit to begin. “The Dwights were by all accounts a normal couple,” Lewis continued. “They had the occasional row but seemed generally happy; a tidy little home; an obedient older daughter and a rebellious younger one. Dwight’s gambling got a bit out of hand once in a while but nothing truly sinister.”

Hathaway shrugged. “The good people at BetFred are still waiting for the Dwight estate to fork over what he owed—it could be there’s some connection there we’ve yet to uncover.”

“Yeah, although I wouldn’t have thought that bashing the guy over the head would aid in getting their money back,” Lewis said.

Hathaway shrugged again. “You don’t go round bashing people over the head. If only the baddies would simply take five minutes to organize before committing their heinous deeds, they might choose a more sensible course of action—for example in a situation like this, assuming it’s all about the money, kidnapping for ransom would have been infinitely more logical.”

“Planning on showing them how it’s done, are you?” Lewis asked dryly.

Hathaway’s mouth curved. “Not with you still on the beat.” He glanced at his screen as a new email flashed up, then looked back to Lewis. “Isn’t Lyn due any moment now?”

“She knows where the spare key is,” Lewis answered as he typed at his keyboard.

Hathaway left it for a few minutes, then said, “I think we’re close on the Dwight stuff. I can handle the paperwork for the day and do the follow-ups next week while you’re off.”

Lewis’ typing continued unabated.

“Lyn doesn’t get to visit often, seeing as it’s difficult to travel with your grandson,” Hathaway tried. “You should make the best of your holiday.”

Lewis looked at him. “When do you have to leave for your concert?” 

Hathaway checked the time on his monitor—his band was playing a Christmas show tonight at St. Michael and All Angels Church in Summertown. “Not for another hour—even with traffic, I’ll be there in plenty of time. In fact, they discouraged us from arriving too far in advance,” Hathaway said, “lest we take up the best parking spots, I think.”

Lewis nodded knowledgeably. “Reserved for spectators only, eh? All right, I’ll leave the drudgery to you, since you’ve twisted my arm. But just for today, mind. Any developments on this Dwight case, I want to hear about them.”

“Understood.”

Lewis gave him a stern look, which prompted Hathaway to hold up a palm. “You have my word, sir.”

Lewis nodded. “Okay then.” He resumed his typing, and Hathaway returned to preparing his notes from the Armstrong interview. About half an hour later, the sound of Lewis’ computer shutting down had Hathaway raising his head.

“Have a nice time tonight,” Lewis said as he pushed away from his desk. “Break a leg and all that.” 

“Will do,” Hathaway nodded. 

“See you tomorrow for dinner?” Lewis pulled on his North Face jacket and affixed a lumpy blue woollen scarf about his neck. It was a bit scratchy, but Lyn had made for him when she’d been pregnant with Tommy, and Lewis was determined to make use of it while Lyn was around. 

“I’ll be there,” Hathaway said. Lewis gave the door a pat and went into the hall, to go welcome his daughter, her toddler, her husband and her friend into his home.

*** 

It was nearing half six on Saturday and Lewis was just retrieving the last of the laundry from the dryer—the baby had had a somewhat tumultuous car ride down—when he heard the chime of the front door. He secured the laundry basket under an arm and went to answer it—it would be James, whom Lewis had invited because the lad had seemed lacking in the way of Christmas plans; he had agreed to come only after Lewis had admitted he wanted to show off his grandson. The whole house smelled of tomato and garlic and warm baking bread—Lyn was making chicken parmigiana, and Lewis was looking forward to it a lot. 

“Look who we found!” Matthew, Lyn’s friend, was at the open door with Tommy on his hip and Hathaway standing before him. He turned back to Hathaway as Lewis approached. “You must be James—I’m Matthew, and this is Thomas.” He looked down at Tommy and hoisted him up a bit. “Can you say hi, Thomas?” 

“James, come in,” Lewis said, smiling. Hathaway nodded and shook Matthew’s free hand and said “Hello, Thomas,” and stepped inside. It turned out Matthew was not only one of the first people Lyn had become friends with in Manchester, but also a de facto nanny (“manny,” Matthew had said) to Tommy and indispensable to the lot of them, especially since Lyn had gone back to work full-time. It also turned out that it was Matthew’s boyfriend who had chucked him mere days before Christmas, not his girlfriend. “Dad!” Lyn had laughed the other night when they’d been talking alone in the kitchen, “Matthew’s gay—isn’t it obvious?” It hadn’t been, to Lewis—but one look at the half-smirk that James was giving him now as he removed his coat told Lewis that James had guessed it immediately.

“Uh-oh,” Matthew was saying, patting at Tommy’s back. “I think we’re going to need a fresh nappy, Tum Tum.” He reached around Hathaway to shut the door and said to Lewis and Hathaway, “We’ll be right back—oh, I can bring that up—no, it’s fine, there’s barely anything in it,” before moving down the hallway and up the stairs with the laundry basket under one arm and bobbing Tommy with the other while the boy burbled unintelligibly.

“Sir,” Hathaway said with a smile. He held out a bottle of wine, and Lewis took it. “You have an adorable grandson.”

“Ah, thanks,” Lewis smiled back, clearly pleased. “He’s a bairn like any other, but we like him. Come on, Lyn’s in the kitchen.” He turned to lead Hathaway into the house. “Hope you’re hungry for the best chicken parmigiana you’ll ever eat.” 

“Ravenous,” Hathaway murmured, following him through the living room to the kitchen. A single string of fairy lights lit the short corridor, the vanguard for the twinkling host that occupied the fat green tree in the far corner. Beneath the widest branches sat several large boxes, dressed in shimmery gold ribbon and bright red paper. 

“Hey, Dad, was that—oh, hello!” Lyn smiled warmly at Hathaway as they came into view. She dried her hands on a tea towel and came round the kitchen counter. “So good to see you again, James,” she said, reaching up to kiss Hathaway’s cheek. “Happy Christmas.”

“Hi Lyn, happy Christmas,” Hathaway replied. “It’s been a while, yeah. How was the trip down?”

“Oh, good—good as can be expected with a carsick baby,” Lyn said. “Oh! Have you seen the baby yet?”

“I have had the pleasure of making Thomas’ acquaintance,” Hathaway grinned. “You have a beautiful son. I think he’s having his nappy changed.”

“Oh, good—I think the last time we saw each other, I was only, what? A few months along? Well anyway, I can’t remember, but it was a while ago—”

“Hi,” said John as he emerged from the living room where he’d been setting up the table. “James Hathaway, good to see you again.” They shook hands and chatted a bit longer when Matthew rejoined them with a refreshened Tommy, and soon enough it was time to eat. 

*** 

It was a wonderful meal. Lewis had second helpings of everything, and at some point between reaching for another piece of buttery garlic bread, getting up to fetch a tea towel to mop up the mess Tommy had made of his peas, listening to Hathaway and Matthew debate the merits of Marvelman vs. Miracleman (“And these are comic books you’re going on about?” “Graphic novels, sir.”) and looking over at the press of Lyn’s hand on his shoulder as she asked him to pass the salad, Lewis remembered what it was to have a family. He swallowed his mouthful of bread and smiled, because this felt like home, and because he couldn’t help think how much he already missed them. 

“Do you always call him ‘sir’?” Matthew was asking, gesturing toward Lewis with his fork. Lewis glanced at Hathaway, who was seated next to him.

“That’s his name,” Hathaway grinned.

Matthew smiled. “How long have you been working together?”

“About six years,” Hathaway said, with that twist to his mouth that meant he thought he was being clever, “but it seems like much longer.” 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Lewis put in.

Matthew chuckled. “I think I stopped sirring my boss after the first week. But then, I’m not a policeman.” Matthew was a PA to a middle manager at a plastics company.

Hathaway’s neck did that quick, bird-like tip and he looked at Lewis, wearing the same half-smirk. “It reminds me not to try to rise above my station.”

Lewis quirked an eyebrow and studied Hathaway a moment. He got the sense that Hathaway was being fathomless, which, as usual, was both exasperating and intriguing. “Don’t listen to him,” he told Matthew and Lyn and John. “He could be the bloody chief constable if he wanted.”

“Not true,” asserted Hathaway. “I’m facetious.”

Lewis laughed then, and Hathaway’s smirk bloomed at him, and everyone else looked on in polite confusion, so Lewis started telling the story of Dr Stringer and his precious poets and the reprimand from Innocent, and how these Oxford types could come up with such a load of old cobblers as had yet to be surpassed. And then Hathaway pointed out that Lewis hadn’t served on the Cambridgeshire force, and Lewis conceded perhaps Cambridge would’ve been worse, after all, Hathaway had gone there and look how he’d turned out. Everyone laughed, but the baby started to cry, perhaps from a feeling that not enough attention was being paid to him, so Lyn whisked him away, cooing to him all the while about his shameless need for constant adoration. Lewis turned to the washing-up while the other three put away the leftovers. He stood at the sink, immersing himself in the sloshing and clinking of the spoons and pans, the thruup of the plastic wrap as it was torn from the roll, the sounds of Hathaway and John and Matthew talking, shutting drawers, opening the fridge, and he smiled without knowing it, feeling full of chicken and quiet happiness.

***

Sunday was glorious—gloriously frigid, but not frigid enough to keep Hathaway from taking his routine exercise on the Isis. The river was largely clear—most of the other regular rowers were probably occupied with holiday plans—and Hathaway pushed and puffed his way through an hour of cleansing pain. When he finished, he drove home in sweaty lycra feeling tired and relaxed, and he went into the shower in the highest of spirits. Their concert had gone smashingly—they’d sold out of their CDs in fact—and yesterday evening at Lewis’ place had been fun. Homey. He couldn’t believe the size of Lyn’s child compared to the infant in the snaps Lewis had shown him before. Lewis had invited him to come back tonight, but Hathaway had declined, not wanting to intrude on their family time. Hathaway sort of regretted it now—it would be nice to see them again, to be there, to be part of that house. Instead he was planning to have a beer with a few of the guys from the band and a couple of their mates. Should he phone Lewis and tell him his plans had changed? Hathaway shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Better not, he decided. It wouldn’t do to be clingy. Hathaway was well aware of how he felt toward Lewis. He had been for a while. He’d learned to cope with it, more or less. Sometimes, though—when Lewis demonstrated a never-before exhibited familiarity with Florentine paintings or Wagnerian operas or Greek tragic heroines, or when Lewis looked at him with that lift to his mouth—it was impossible. He towelled off, the good will he’d rowed so hard to earn diminished by these latest musings, and ambled into his bedroom to get dressed. Then his mobile went off. 

“Hathaway,” he answered, wrapping the towel about his waist. It was Connors, at the station. Hathaway listened intently for a moment, then began grabbing at clean clothes nearest to hand with the phone wedged to his bare shoulder. “Right. Right. I’ll be there. Cheers.” He rang off and quickly pulled on his vest. Ask and ye shall receive, he thought. He plucked a random shirt from its hanger and started doing it up one-handed, and dialled Lewis’ mobile with the other.

“Sir, I know I’m the last person you want to hear from today,” he said when Lewis picked up, “but I’ve just learned that David Dunton, Harry Dunton’s son, was found badly beaten about twenty minutes ago. He’s been taken to the Churchill Hospital in Headington. I’m on my way there now.” Hathaway paused as Lewis began talking, then resumed. “I understand he may not be in a condition to—I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by you—right. Okay.” He heard Lewis disconnect. “See you there,” Hathaway said, to the silence on the other end. 

Hathaway beat Lewis to the victim’s hospital bed, but it didn’t much matter. David Dunton, the doctor informed him, had lapsed into a comatose state, and at the moment it was unclear when, if ever, he would regain consciousness. Hathaway was interviewing the man who had brought him in—a man who’d been out walking his dog. He’d seen David Dunton stagger from the front door of a house and then slump to the kerb, his head and torso covered in blood. He hadn’t seen anyone else in the area, but then, he’d been so alarmed by the sight of the fallen David and had been so occupied with phoning an ambulance that he couldn’t clearly recollect the scene. Hathaway was in the process of handing over his card to the shaken witness (“If you remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.”) when Lewis appeared, tieless and in slacks. From under the flap of his winter jacket, Hathaway glimpsed the edge of an orangey stain on the shoulder of his jumper. It looked like pureed carrots that had met with ill favour.

“Sir,” Hathaway said. “Unfortunately we won’t be able to speak with Mr. Dunton for the foreseeable future—he’s in the grips of a coma. Doctor can’t give an estimate for when he might wake. He was brought in by a good Samaritan by the name of Russell Fywell—he’s in there, recovering from the shock. He didn’t know the victim—he was out dog-walking. The dog’s in there with him.”

Lewis nodded and frowned. “Is there anyone who would’ve had reason to go after both Dwight and his bookmaker’s son? Could it be that Harry Dunton was the intended target?”

“Could be,” Hathaway replied. “I’ll do a deeper dive into the owner of the betting shop. He seemed fairly removed from the day-to-day operations of each shop, given the franchising system he operates, but if Harry had crossed him in some way, perhaps dipping into the kitty at work, his son may have paid for it, either as an accidental victim or as a warning to Harry. The shop owner could have also had motive for the first attack, if Harry hadn’t been sufficiently forceful in his collection of debts.”

Lewis clicked his tongue; the furrows deepened across his forehead. “That’s a reach, at best. Why not go for Dunton first, if Dunton’s the one who’s ultimately responsible for paying up?”

Hathaway nodded—he’d thought the same thing, even as he’d been talking. “It’s not a perfect theory.” The benefit of having a second victim, he thought, though he would never say such a thing aloud, was that it gave them another data point. “I’ll search for anything that might link David Dunton to Dwight.”

Lewis went to talk to the hospital staff and to have a brief word with Russell Fywell; then he went and checked on David Dunton. While he waited, Hathaway made some calls and answered emails. Then he got two coffees from the vending machine round the corner. 

“Ta,” Lewis said when he came back and took the proffered cup. They started down the hall and toward the main doors.

“I’ll let you know straight away if I find anything,” Hathaway said.

“That won’t be too difficult, as I plan to be five feet off, at my desk,” Lewis replied.

“With all due respect, sir, you _are_ allowed to be somewhere other than the office on your days off. Encouraged, even.”

“I think I’ll survive without seeing the Pendon Indoor Model Village and Railways,” Lewis said. “Apparently Tommy is fascinated by trains,” he added. “Can’t get enough of them.”

Hathaway’s face must have given his thoughts away, as Lewis continued, “Look, if it makes you feel any better, they’ll only be gone a couple of hours—I said I’d be back by then.” Lewis finished his coffee and paused to bin the empty cup. “What about this—let’s go to the office now, see if we can sort any of this out in the next two hours, then you come back with us and we’ll carry on.” Lewis looked imminently reasonable and Hathaway knew he would say yes. He would always say yes. “It’s already what, past one o’clock now—by the time we get back to mine it’ll be near enough to dinner. You can help in the kitchen,” Lewis continued, as if he thought Hathaway needed persuading. Hathaway wondered, for an instant, just what Lewis thought—his guileless face had taken in multitudes of unsuspecting criminals. Hathaway was no criminal, and yet he couldn’t claim innocence—not with Lewis in the world, being either uncharacteristically oblivious or else very, very kind. 

“I—Are you sure the others wouldn’t mind? Lyn wouldn’t mind?” Hathaway asked.

Lewis waved a hand. “They wanted you more than me, man,” he grinned, then quickly added, “But if you had other plans—”

Hathaway shook his head. 

Dinner that evening was a heavenly lasagne, heavy with sausage and oozing with cheese. “John loves Italian,” Lyn had said, as Hathaway had set about dicing onions. “When we got married, I promised we’d have it at least once a week. I’m afraid I’ve fallen a bit behind and am desperately hoping to catch up before the end of the year. Thank god pizzas count.” Hathaway had smiled and listened as closely as he could while turning over in his mind the facts from the two attacks. They hadn’t made much progress in their two short hours at the office, but Hathaway was sure something would turn up sooner or later. He simply needed to cast a wider net. 

After the table was cleared and wiped down, Hathaway and Lewis spread out the notes and photographs and files they had brought from the office and got to it. It was bath time for Tommy (“Daddy’s turn!” Lyn had announced gleefully); Lyn and Matthew were out doing some eleventh-hour Christmas shopping. And in the dining room cum study, Lewis and Hathaway were stumped. 

“I don’t think there’s anything here, sir,” Hathaway sighed after they’d been at it for an hour. He slumped back in his chair then stretched up his arms, folding them down at the elbows to grab the top of the backrest. “We’ve been over everything twice already—I doubt we’ve missed the connection. If there is one.”

Lewis flipped shut a folder with a glum look. “Is it possible these are two unrelated incidents?”

Hathaway tilted his chin. “It’d be a hell of a coincidence.”

“Well, stranger things have happened,” Lewis mused. “And don’t forget, it’s Christmas next week.”

“A time for miracles and the commission of oddly similar yet unrelated crimes,” Hathaway agreed.

Lewis huffed in amusement and scrubbed a hand over his face. Then he straightened. “Damn. I’m out of sultanas.” He started digging into his pocket and pulled out his phone. 

“Alerting the media?” Hathaway asked.

“Can’t have Christmas without plum duff,” Lewis explained. “Can’t have plum duff without sultanas. I took them out of the cupboard for Tommy this morning—the next thing I know I look down and the little blighter’s sitting in a puddle of them, beaming up at me with gobs of sultanas stuck all over his face.” The creases in his face that had formed when he’d unlocked his phone eased as he chuckled. “I wasn’t going to tell Lyn except she found a few when she changed his nappy. Ah, here we are.” He tapped once, then again, at the screen, then held it up to his ear. “Hi, pet, it’s Dad. Yeah—no, everything’s fine. I was only wondering—were you planning on stopping at the supermarket on the way back? I just remembered about the sultanas—oh, right. Cleverer than I thought. Yes, ha. Okay, bye. Drive safe. Bye. Yeah.” 

Hathaway tried not to look quite as entertained as he felt as he watched Lewis talk. “You know,” he suggested when Lewis had rung off, “if you don’t like having to find Lyn’s number in your contacts every time you want to phone her, you can add a button to your home screen that will dial her directly. Like speed dial.”

Lewis looked intrigued.

Hathaway bit back his laugh and leaned forward. “Here, go back to your default home screen.” Lewis tapped at the icon and it flashed up. “Now try going to folders.” Lewis tapped the folders icon dutifully. “Your contacts should be here…” Hathaway studied the icons as Lewis swiped down the screen. “Hm…” Hathaway frowned and bent his head closer.

Lewis grunted. “Not so easy, is it, Mr Gizmo?”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t got an Android, have I?” Hathaway murmured. “Try going to apps. No, go back, then go to apps. Now widgets.”

Lewis obeyed, muttering, “Android—I thought this was a Samsung. Says so right on the back. And these bloody widgets—what’s the world come to, I ask you.”

“Right, there it is,” Hathaway said triumphantly, ignoring Lewis. “Contacts. Now just select Lyn’s—lovely, I see she’s under ‘Pet’—and try to drag—no, I think you’ve got to hold down; hold down, and drag—perfect.” He looked up and realized he was quite close to Lewis now—he could see in great detail the happy lines curving up at the corner of Lewis’ left eye, the matching curve of Lewis’ mouth, the gentle rise of his cheek. 

“Brilliant,” Lewis said, not hearing the kick of Hathaway’s heart. “It’s even got the little picture.” Hathaway forced himself to look away from Lewis, from the soft droop at his neck. He turned to the phone. A tiny thumbnail of Lyn smiled grainily back from the top corner. 

“Would you like to add any other contacts here?” Hathaway asked, keeping his voice, the slant of his body, even.

“You mean whilst I have adult supervision,” Lewis said. “Yeah, why not.” Lewis returned to the apps screen, then touched Widgets.

“You’ll want Dr Hobson, of course,” Hathaway said. He concentrated on breathing through the mild choke in his chest.

Lewis snorted. “Don’t you start.” But he brought up Laura Hobson’s contact details and dragged them to the home screen. “I haven’t got a snap of her.” He was peering at the icon of a grey silhouette labelled ‘Laura Hobson’ that had appeared next to Lyn’s. 

“Yeah, I’m surprised that Lyn’s…” Hathaway trailed off. “Do you have a Facebook account, sir?” He turned incredulous eyes on Lewis—the shock had done him good. The constriction in his chest had gone. 

“Good grief,” Lewis replied. “I’d forgotten—but I do. Never use the thing. Lyn helped get me in it the last time I went up. Told her it wouldn’t do me any good, but she insisted it would change my life.” Lewis laughed. “Hasn’t yet. Why do you ask?”

“If you have a Facebook account you can automatically sync your friends—and their profile pictures—to your phone contacts,” Hathaway explained. “That’s why Lyn’s picture showed up—that’s her Facebook profile picture, isn’t it?”

Lewis brought the phone closer to his eyes, and squinted. “I suppose it must be—but it’s hard to tell.”

“You must’ve synced it when you activated the phone—or, someone at Vodafone did,” Hathaway concluded.

Lewis nodded. “Sounds about right. Now,” he said, returning his attention to the phone and holding it at an angle to see it more clearly, “let’s add you to the speed dial—right, there you are, under ‘S’ for ‘Smartarse.’”

Hathaway drew himself up, but glanced over at the screen anyway. Lewis caught it, and grinned. 

“Do I have to befriend you or whatever it is that happens in Facebook before your picture appears?” Lewis asked, after the ‘James Hathaway’ contact icon made it onto the default home screen.

“Actually, I’m not on Facebook, but I believe you can take a picture for that,” Hathaway answered, leaning back in toward Lewis, and the phone.

“What, now?”

“Sure,” Hathaway said. “Let’s see…” He extended a hand to the phone—he’d managed not to do this for hours, but willpower was a finite resource, self-discipline a muscle, and at the moment Hathaway’s reserves were depleted; his strength gone. He propped his cheek against his free palm and uncurled a finger, conscious of Lewis waiting, breathing soundlessly next to him. 

Hathaway’s fingertip stroked the surface of the phone, and the edge of Lewis’ thumb, just on the knuckle. “And now you can take the photo,” he said, too softly. Quickly he drew his hand back, looked away, and dug out his own phone.

“Wait a second,” he said, holding up it up to his ear. “Okay, go on.” He cocked his head and put on a broad, cheesy grin with lots of teeth. Lewis made a face, but held up his phone to take the snap.

“What’s that for, then?” he said, lowering the phone after.

“That’s how I look when I’m on the phone with you.” Hathaway gestured with the phone still in his hand, tucked by his ear.

“Right,” Lewis scoffed. “Let’s do another—one that’s crime scene appropriate, please?”

Hathaway grinned and nodded. He didn’t hold up his phone this time, just looked at Lewis a moment with a small smile, and into the dark lens.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” It was Matthew’s voice at the doorway. Hathaway and Lewis both turned to look—Matthew stood there with a few shopping bags in each hand. “Lyn wanted me to let you know we were back—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No worries, you weren’t,” Lewis said, rising. “James was just sitting for his portrait, for me new phone.” He toggled it. “Got it,” he said, turning back round to Hathaway. “Do you need a hand?” he asked Matthew. 

“I’m all set, thanks,” Matthew said. “But there are a few more in the car—Lyn went up to see Tommy.”

Lewis went to fetch the rest of the things while Hathaway put their papers back into their folders. Afterwards, he helped Lewis put some groceries into the fridge as they talked about the case for a few minutes more, before he headed home, to give the case further thought.

***

Lewis went up the stairs slowly, feeling pleasantly knackered after the best sort of day—there’d been work and play and a delicious home-cooked dinner, and he was having his first Christmas with his laughing, rambunctious little grandson. Val, you would have loved this, he thought, imagining her footsteps behind him, slow, to accommodate his. As he reached the top he could see the slice of yellow light left on the carpet by the bedroom door—it was partly open, and he could make out bits and pieces of Lyn, her arm and elbow as she folded something. Clothing.

“Yeah, I like him,” someone said from inside. It was Matthew. “Do you reckon your dad knows he’s got a thing for him?”

Lewis froze, one foot on the top step.

“What?” That was Lyn laughing. “What do you mean?” She sounded totally disbelieving. Lewis saw her arms stop.

“I mean he’s got a thing for him,” Matthew repeated. “What? Your dad’s not bad—I mean for a man of his age, and he’s really sweet. No wonder James fell for him—it was probably inevitable—”

“A man of his age?” Lyn interrupted, her laughter taking on an embarrassed tinge. She’d resumed folding and looked to be placing it into a box—Lewis could just see the corner of it on the bed. His mortification—and curiosity—kept him standing stiffly where he was, unable to move a muscle.

“Anyway, what’s got this completely insane idea into your head?” Lyn was saying. “James isn’t gay. He’s dated women. Dad said so.” She bent forward and disappeared from Lewis’ limited view save for a sliver of purple jumper. Had he told her about Hathaway’s women friends? Perhaps in passing—he would have to watch himself in future.

There was the sound of sellotape being torn from its dispenser. “So?” Matthew asked. “Maybe he’s half and half. All I know is, he’s got a massive crush on your dad.” Lewis felt his pulse jump sharply in his neck. This conversation wasn’t good for his blood pressure.

The bit of Lyn’s face reappeared, then disappeared again. “That’s bollocks,” she said. “James has been working for my dad for years—he’s just more comfortable with him than with any of us. He’s really private, you know? Anyone can see that.” More sounds of sellotape, then the faint thump of a roll of wrapping paper landing on the floor.

“No, right, but it isn’t only that,” came Matthew’s voice, sounding close to the ground. The mattress squeaked, and Lewis heard the rustling of the paper being unrolled. “There’s just something—for example earlier, when we got back, I walked in on them—”

“Kissing?” Lyn interrupted dryly. Lewis felt his chest seize up.

“ _No,_ ” Matthew replied emphatically. “But your dad was taking a photo of James with his phone and you should’ve seen his _face_ when he looked at your dad. It went all soft and gooey.”

“It did not go _gooey!_ ” burst in Lyn, laughing. “Now I _know_ you’re talking a load of rubbish.”

“All right, fine, maybe not gooey—but there was definitely something!” Matthew insisted. “I’ve got a very keen sense for these things—remember just last month I told you about the night receptionist and that new doctor, the good-looking one with the green eyes? You didn’t believe it, but where are they now? Off skiing in France.”

“Right,” Lyn said, the smile clear in her voice. “Fine. You were right about Sharon and Dr Sands. Whatever. That will never not be weird. But I still can’t picture—hand me the scissors?—James harbouring secret passions for my dad because (a), Dad’s not at all his type, (b) Dad’s not only old enough to be his father but is in fact his _boss,_ and (c) he knows Dad wouldn’t feel that way about a man.”

The steady clipping of scissors through paper were all Lewis heard for a moment through the haze of his imminent cardiac arrest.

“The heart wants what it wants,” Matthew said.

Lyn laughed. “Let’s agree to disagree, shall we? If you keep this up, I am going to start feeling hideously awkward around James. And for god’s sake don’t go sharing your wild theories with anyone else. Just hold that bit down, would you?”

Lewis’ chest heaved as he took in air, breathing deeply through his nose. Of course it wasn’t true; of course it wasn’t true. Lyn’s friend hardly knew them. It was silliness. Complete nonsense. His pulse finally stopped its crazy careening. Of course it wasn’t true. Lewis turned soundlessly on the step and began the descent. He’d come up later to say good night.

By the time he reached the bottom, he’d seen the humour in the situation. The evils of eavesdropping. He laughed out a sigh and went into his bedroom. Even if there _were_ a grain of truth in it somewhere, it had to be positively miniscule and based on some absurd misinterpretation of Hathaway’s evident respect for Lewis’ professional experience. Anyway, it was madness. And Lyn had been right. He couldn’t think of James in that way. Best to stop thinking about it altogether.

***

It was going on midnight when Hathaway sat down to his laptop, his bare ankles sticking out from the worn hems of his pyjama bottoms. He rubbed his eyes and clicked on a random link on the BBC homepage, and tried to read for all of a minute. Then, feeling a bit sheepish for feeling sheepish in his own flat, he looked up Lewis' Facebook page. As he'd suspected, there were an abundance of Robbie Lewises on Facebook. He tried searching for just the ones in Oxford, and got three hits. One was a pharmaceutical sales rep who worked for Oxford Labs; one had a profile picture of an Alsatian with its tongue out; and one was Inspector Lewis, in a photo that didn't look familiar to Hathaway. Lyn must've uploaded it, Hathaway guessed. It looked a few years old, more like Lewis when Hathaway had first met him; a bit more colour to his hair, a bit leaner under the jaw. Hathaway clicked on the link, and wasn’t surprised to be informed that Lewis only shared his information with friends. Briefly, he thought about finally succumbing and creating a Facebook account, but the better angels of his nature prevailed, and he went to the band's page instead. One of the saxophonists had created it, intending it to be a personal account, but in the end the band’s promos and video clips had taken over, and now every member could log in to post updates and photos, any time. Tonight, Hathaway’s forbearance was rewarded. As he clicked idly over photos of a gig they’d played a month ago in Abingdon, he saw it. David Dunton, caught mid-sentence in a group snap, his face partly turned from the lens as he shouted to his friends. Hathaway quickly opened the image in a new window and clicked on the band’s friends. David Dunton wasn’t among them, but the kid next to him was. Hathaway clicked on the link to Damien McCarrill’s Facebook page. He was in luck—Damien’s friends were visible to him, and David was not far down the list. Hathaway held his breath and clicked on David’s page—and David’s life unfolded on his screen.

Hathaway flexed his jaw, and started reading.

***

Hathaway waited until he reached the office on Monday morning to phone Lewis. It had taken him a few hours, but he’d found it—the link between David Dunton and Patrick Dwight.

“Morning, sir. Yes, I realize it’s quite early, and I’m sorry about that, but I thought you’d want to know. I was on Facebook late last night, doing some digging on David Dunton, and it turns out he was in a relationship with Dwight’s daughter, Jemma. You remember, with the facial piercings. About two weeks before Dwight gets coshed on the head, the daughter starts appearing in photos with a new young man. Based on his Facebook posts, I don’t think David was too thrilled with it.” He paused, listening to the early morning rasp in Lewis’ throat as Lewis questioned him.

“I agree it doesn’t tie together fully just yet, but I think it shines a light,” Hathaway replied. “Let me go round to the Duntons again, and to the Dwight girl—I’ll let you know what I—” Lewis cut him off, and Hathaway sighed. _When’s the last time you spent Christmas Eve with your daughter?_ he wanted to say. Instead, he settled for a reluctant “Yes sir. See you in a bit.”

It turned out they had the wrong Dwight girl—after a brief fling with Jemma Dwight, David had moved on to her older sister, Katie. She was stoic when they spoke to her, and clearly anxious. Lewis had prodded, gently, in his most fatherly fashion. He couldn’t help but think of his own Lyn at home and the kind of kid she’d been—decent and good, but susceptible to making one or two mistakes of the life-changing variety. He and Val had done their level best to save both of their children from such errors. They’d just managed it with Lyn. He supposed their will power or their energy or their luck had run down by the time her brother had turned into an intractable, distant teen. Lewis regretted that, every day. He softened his tone further, thinking of his son. _It might feel like you haven’t a friend in the world,_ he said to Katie, _but I can see that you only want things to be right again. Help us make sense of this._ She had taken a trembling breath, and burst into tears.

“Anthony Meade is in for a rotten Christmas,” Hathaway remarked as they walked down the corridor from their office to the car park, in the last hours of Christmas Eve. “Lumps of coal, this year.”

Lewis snorted. “I doubt they hang stockings in Category A facilities. But then, that’s what he gets for murdering his son-in-law and nearly doing the same to his granddaughter’s boyfriend.” Outside, it was arctic. Lewis squinted up at the misty rings of light surrounding the lamppost tops. Not many cars remained. “All because she got pregnant, and Meade wanted revenge against the boy who dishonoured her and the father who let it happen,” Lewis exhaled. He felt tired and sad. “It’s a funny way to show you care.”

“Murder always is,” Hathaway replied, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “An educational campaign might be in order. ‘Love means never having to go to prison.’”

“Right, because the campaigns against littering and smoking have been so bloody successful,” Lewis said, looking pointedly at the cigarette Hathaway had slid from the packet. Lewis grimaced the instant the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“Sorry, lad,” he began, but Hathaway had already returned the ciggie to the pack and the pack to his pocket. “You go on—I don’t know what came over me.”

Hathaway pursed his angular jaw into a semi-smile and shook his head, his hands thrust into his wool coat pockets. “It’s okay. I don’t need it.”

Lewis raised a doubtful eyebrow as they tramped on toward their cars. “I bet that’s not what your nicotine-starved brain is telling you.”

Hathaway’s smile widened briefly, and as he looked back at Lewis, Lewis suddenly found himself recalling what he’d overheard the night before. He found himself thinking—maybe it wasn’t so impossible after all. His throat seemed to thicken and he glanced at the ground. _Hathaway, Hathaway._ It sounded in his ears, to the rhythm of their steps as they crossed cracked asphalt and painted white lines. _James. What do I really know about you?_

“Have dinner with us,” Lewis said when they arrived at their cars.

Hathaway looked taken off-guard. Lewis thought he oughtn’t to have, by now. “Oh, ah—it’s pretty late. I was just going to grab something quick on my way home, but thanks all the same,” Hathaway replied, ducking his head for an instant, then stretching his neck. He was so like a bird, Lewis thought. Constantly darting—his eyes, his head. A bit awkward when at rest—excessive limb and chin—but graceful when in motion, smooth and sure. Quick to spot leads from afar, quick to answer Lewis’ call, whether it was Lewis bellowing for him in the Bodleian or ringing him at the weekend—Hathaway always answered with a swift _Sir,_ as if he’d been waiting all along. Was he waiting, even now?

“I’ve deprived you of your evening and your well-earned smoke,” Lewis said. “If you want to get on home, you should.” Lewis felt his heart pumping. “But in my fridge there are two plates of ravioli that Lyn made up, and I’m meant to be watching my diet.”

Hathaway turned his mouth up at one side. “When you put it like that, how can I say no?”

Lewis looked at him, at the golden crest of his hair. _Hathaway, Hathaway. You never say no._

***

Christmas morning dawned grey and hushed. Hathaway’s breath puffed out white as he strode up the concrete steps of the chapel, for the morning Mass. The chilly solemnity of the church seemed to reflect from its stone walls, and Hathaway's neck tucked down into his collar instinctively as he entered. He chose an empty pew near the altar, in the centre aisle, and bent to genuflect. The kneeler creaked loudly. Hathaway leaned forward, shutting his eyes, breathing in the scent of frankincense and candles burned during last evening's vigil. He lowered his head, and asked God for mercy.

By the time the service began, the pews were half full, and the intrepid handful of choir members who had sacrificed their early Christmas morning to glorify the Lord in song had chased the cold from the church and from Hathaway's face. His heart thus unhardened, Hathaway listened. _For the Lord comforts his people, he redeems Jerusalem._ Hathaway’s lungs filled, lifting his chest. Comfort, and redemption—he had sought them so long. He shut his eyes. He sought them still. _All the ends of the earth have seen the saving power of God,_ Hathaway recited, in time with the flock of believers. Seated before the crucifix, he thought he saw it too.

After the final blessing and announcements, Hathaway rose to leave, softly humming the recessional hymn. He still felt it, the presence of God in him, despite the battering he had suffered over Will, despite the constant slings and arrows of doubt aimed at him by murderers and thieves. He stooped for a final genuflection, and turned and walked down the aisle. Then he saw Lewis standing at the back, his neck looped by a bunchy blue scarf, his hands inside the pockets of his grey-green jacket. Hathaway stopped abruptly—their eyes met. Hathaway cocked his head and resumed his walk toward the broad double doors. Lewis lifted his brows.

"Sir?" Hathaway said when he reached Lewis. The pounding of his heart made his coat too warm. There was no denying how he felt about Lewis. He could sense the eyes of the angels and saints, glimmering dimly from their richly-hued glass panes, upon him. He was, like them, utterly transparent.

"Happy Christmas, James," Lewis nodded. "No need to look so concerned, I'm not here on business. All's right with the world."

Hathaway purposely relaxed his face. "Shh. You'll jinx it." He drew himself up, breathed in. "Shall I take your presence here as a sign of divine intervention?" At Lewis’ look, he shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”

"I’m afraid you’re mistaking me for someone else," Lewis answered. "Don’t fancy Damascus, even this time of year." They went into the vestibule, which was freezing, as the outer doors had been propped open for the dismissal of Mass.

“When you mentioned last night you were coming here,” Lewis continued, “I thought I might do as well. Get a moment of quiet to myself.” He paused, peering past the doors. “Don’t get me wrong—I'm really enjoying having Lyn and John to stay—I wish they could do it more often—but sometimes...” He trailed off with a lift of his shoulder.

"It's nice to have a little peace," Hathaway finished. “If I may say so, you came to the right place.” His eyes turned toward Lewis, who was still looking outside. Their elbows nearly touched.

"That could've been you," Lewis said, nodding at the priest. It was Father Kinneally who had presided. He was speaking and smiling to a young couple, nodding and folding his hands in front of him. The vestments he wore draped over him in long clean lines of gold and white, their edges bright against the drawn sky. Hathaway watched as the husband and wife each shook hands with Father Kinneally and moved down the stone steps.

"Ever think about it? What it would've been like?" Lewis asked.

"I used to, sometimes," Hathaway replied. "But then I met you, and I've never looked back." He grinned at Lewis, and was surprised when Lewis didn't react, except to gaze more intently at him. It was an odd moment, airless, and as it passed Hathaway felt that in those seconds the course of his life could have changed entirely, if only he’d had the courage to act, if only he’d known how Lewis would respond, if only it weren’t a sin, if only they weren’t standing at the threshold of a church on the put-together pieces of his belief in one God, the father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.

"Ah, James," Lewis exhaled. It seemed sudden, but it wasn’t. Lewis shifted to watch the last parishioners say goodbye to the priest, nudging his arm to Hathaway's. "You keep things interesting for me too."

Hathaway stood with his elbow against Lewis, pulse fluttering, racing, thoughts racing. _Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart._

"We're opening presents in, oh, about half an hour," Lewis said, checking his watch. "You should join us. If you'd like."

Hathaway blinked quickly. "I can’t—it’s Christmas. You should be with your family."

Lewis looked back with a tolerant half-smile. "Yeah. Now go on, say hello to Father Friendly and let's get a move on. I've got a houseful who'll be wanting breakfast, and it won't be making itself."

"No, it sounds like I'll be doing that," Hathaway murmured. He left Mass with Lewis, his steps light as snowfall on the rippling cobblestone.

***

Everyone was up by the time they arrived home, in slept-on hair and pyjamas. Matthew had made a start on breakfast; the house smelled of the beginnings of bacon, except just by the tree. Lyn looked up from Tommy’s high chair, where she was putting down a handful of cereal on the tray.

“Hi Dad—oh, you found him, brilliant!” she smiled. “Happy Christmas, James—oh Tums, no, don’t throw them, they’re for eating.” She looked around at them. “I think he’s excited about having company again.” Just then John’s voice came from the stairwell.

“Lyn, have you seen the charger for the camcorder? Only I’ve left the battery in it.”

“Wasn’t it plugged in by the door?” Lyn called back. There was a pause. “The bedroom door?” Lyn called. Another silence in which Lewis and Hathaway exchanged glances. Lyn would not be happy if Tommy’s first Christmas with his granddad were lost to the ages.

“Got it!” John shouted down. Lewis breathed out in relief, and Hathaway smirked at him.

“I’d moved it to the hallway to make room for the phones,” he said, appearing a moment later with the camcorder in hand. “Morning, Dad. James,” he grinned. “Everyone say hello!” He raised the camcorder to his face. Lyn immediately objected with a “John! I’m not dressed yet!” whilst Matthew asked everyone what kind of eggs they wanted. Lewis watched Hathaway standing awkwardly in the kitchen, his narrow face radiant; John hovered toward his wife, to zoom in. Tommy smiled, pedalled his little arms, and gurgled a hello.

A little while later Lewis was sat in the squashy chair next to the tree with his grandson, who was holding the front carriage from the train set Santa had given him. “Choo choo!” said Lewis.

“Choo choo!” said Tommy. He held up the bright green car and Lewis helped him guide it across invisible train tracks in the air. “Choo choo!” Tommy smiled, and jammed the carriage into his mouth. Lewis stretched for another piece of the train and held it up. A few feet off, wrapping paper rustled as Hathaway pushed it down into a bin bag.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Hathaway said. “I’ve had a really lovely time. I’m sorry to have distracted you so often from your holiday—the Christmas you’d planned with Lyn and everyone.”

Lewis looked over to where Hathaway knelt. “Don’t be daft,” he said. “You haven’t distracted me.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. Tommy made a grab for the yellow train car in Lewis’ hand, and it fell to the carpet. Hathaway started shuffling forward on his knees at the same time Lewis shifted Tommy on his lap and bent to retrieve it.

“There you go,” Hathaway said, getting to it first. He held it out for Tommy’s plump hand. “Chugga chugga,” he said, bobbing the train car. Tommy promptly discarded the one in his mouth for the new favourite and grasped it from Hathaway’s fingers. Lewis watched Hathaway start to reach for the slobbered-on one for a moment before re-considering.

“Best let that dry out a bit first,” Hathaway murmured.

Lewis nodded. Hathaway looked so earnest, sitting back on his heels with his knees on the carpet, as if in supplication. Lewis’ thoughts flashed again on what Lyn’s friend had said—it didn’t cause him to wince anymore to think of it. Maybe he was getting used to the idea. Maybe he thought—it could be true. It was probably true. Did it bother him? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t think so. Tommy squirmed in his lap, made a frustrated noise. He was getting ahead of himself. He could be completely off the mark.

“James,” Lewis said, hoisting Tommy up. “You’re always welcome here. Right? No matter what else you might think.” He didn’t look at Hathaway, but kept his eyes on Tommy, who had thrown away the yellow train carriage. Tommy’s tiny features were convulsing into an unmistakeable pout. Lewis knew what that meant. He cradled the toddler in one arm and leaned onto his feet, then tried to lever himself from the chair by pushing off the chair arm. The cushion was too low.

“Need help there, Granddad?” Hathaway smiled and extended a hand.

“Yeah,” Lewis grunted as Hathaway pulled him to his feet. “Be a good lad and fetch my ear trumpet and walker as well?” Hathaway’s mouth creased upward and his grip eased. Lewis found himself holding fast. “James,” he started. He really wanted to know. “Is it…?” The question caught on something sharp in his throat.

“Sir?” Hathaway asked. His eyes were brown, and round, and they looked like before, years ago, when Hathaway had lain in that hospital bed, his face full of wonder as he’d gazed up at Lewis. _Don’t be so melodramatic,_ Lewis had said.

“Nothing,” Lewis said. “Never mind.” He couldn’t ask. He wasn’t up to it, and neither was the lad. He tightened his hand over Hathaway’s and let it go. “Let’s get you changed, young man,” he said to Tommy. Tommy began to cry.

Lewis patted the baby’s back and set off for the stairs. “James,” he called when he reached the foot of the steps. He turned to see Hathaway standing there, where Lewis had left him. He hadn’t moved an inch. _Poor sod,_ Lewis thought. _I’ve spooked him._ “Let’s go,” he said, jerking his head, and Hathaway leapt forward at once, as if stung.

Lewis hid his chuckle behind Tommy’s hair. It was a very happy Christmas indeed.


End file.
